Let the Record Show
by The Storybooker
Summary: ...That Victor's Decision-Making Skills are Not Impaired. YoI retold from Victor's perspective.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: I got sick and watched Yuri on Ice like 3 times (not for the first time), culminating in 17 pages of notes. I love the show, but the pace is so inconsistent and there are so,_ so many _gaps in the story. You can really tell that some 26 episodes got cut down into 12._

 _When I started getting better, I had to decide what to do with those notes. Do I write an essay, or a fic that fills in the gaps?_

 _I decided to try for the latter, even though my track record for completing long projects isn't perfect. But once I started writing this chapter, I couldn't stop until I finished, and I'm so glad I did._

* * *

Victor first took note of Katsuki when he saw him watching Victor skate at the Grand Prix finals. The look on Katsuki's face was one that spoke volumes of admiration. A fan of Victor's, then. It was that that made Victor take note of his scores on the final scoreboard. Dead last—not a score to be ashamed of, but much lower than expected for a finalist.

Victor blinked. That seemed odd. He put it down to inconsistent skating and didn't think about it any further.

He arrived on time to the banquet, so he was there and bored enough to notice when Katsuki and his coach slinked in 30 minutes late. There was a palpable air of reluctance to Katsuki. He positioned himself by the champagne table with a rapidly increasing number of empty glasses beside him, and Victor felt his confidence grow in the gut feeling that Katsuki had only been dragged to the event by his coach.

The tenth time that Victor's eyes strayed over to the younger skater, he had to swallow down a huff of exasperation. The empty champagne glasses next to him were multiplying at an alarming rate. Victor counted 25—they couldn't be all his. Other people must be leaving their empty glasses there, too. But Katsuki was still facing the table, his attention completely focused on the champagne. Maybe Victor should go over and intervene—but no. Victor might have gone around harassing people in his youth under the guise of helpfulness, but he was too old for that now. It wasn't worth the hassle if Katsuki didn't take kindly to it—or worse, if he latched onto Victor like the fanboy that he already suspected he was.

Victor tried to stay focused on the conversation around him, but it was mostly the same boring stuff as usual—sponsors congratulating skaters and asking polite, but often prying questions into their careers, routines and even personal lives. Skaters smack talking each other about the upcoming competitions, and comparing notes about who would be competing where.

Everyone always knew where Victor would be competing without him having to say. And Victor didn't particularly care where anyone else was, with Chris being the only exception. But Chris was across the room right now, and if he were here, they'd probably be having a more interesting conversation, anyway.

Victor's eyes strayed back to Katsuki for the eleventh time, and he wondered at himself.

Katsuki started swaying on his feet—this was it, the alcohol poisoning was setting in. Where was his coach? It was time to call someone.

He'd already pulled out his phone when he realized that it wasn't drunken swaying at all: it was drunken dancing. It was surprisingly graceful for a man so clearly drunk. No, that was uncharitable—it was graceful even for Victor on the ice.

Katsuki was gliding across the dance floor, sways becoming steps and turns becoming twirls. People were starting to draw away, giving him space. Their expressions ranged from horror to disgust, and Victor couldn't believe they couldn't see what he could.

Because Katsuki had consumed so much alcohol that he was clearly not in his right mind. Yet every movement was grace and beauty. There was no music in the banquet hall, but there didn't need to be, because Katsuki was creating it with the movements of his body.

Victor's heart was starting to pound. How was this possible?

Maybe he was romanticizing. After all, he'd expected another boring banquet. Katsuki was making it exciting, and Victor was all about surprise excitement. He tore his eyes from Katsuki to find Chris across the room, hoping to use his friend as a litmus test. Would the other man seem as entranced with Katsuki as Victor was feeling? But Chris hadn't noticed the spectacle yet. His back was turned as he talked to a group of young women, only some of whom were starting to peer over Chris's shoulder at Katsuki's dance.

Katsuki pulled his tie loose, and Victor's heart went into his throat.

Okay, so Katsuki was easy on the eyes, even when he was drunk and out of his mind.

Maybe he needed to get his head checked, Victor reflected as Katsuki tied the tie around his head: Victor's heart was beating ever faster, and he wasn't even able to pretend not to be captivated anymore. Katsuki started twirling around the banquet floor with a champagne bottle in hand. His movements were so unrestrained, so _true_ —oh, why had Victor never watched him skate? How could he have placed last when he could move like this? Was he a terrible jumper? But if so, how could he have made it to the finals?

It didn't make any sense.

"Yuri!" said Katsuki, zeroing in on Victor's fellow Russian Yuri. "Other Yuri! You think there can only be one Yuri in the competition next year?"

Victor's brows rose as his eyes slid over to Yuri, who was scowling.

"You're drunk," spat Yuri with even more vehemence than usual. "You're making a fool of yourself."

"I could still beat you in a dance-off," slurred Katsuki.

"The hell you could," said Yuri.

"Oh, he could definitely give you a run for your money."

Victor didn't even realize he'd spoken aloud until Katsuki and Yuri's attention refocused to him. The Russian was incredulous—incredulity that rapidly edged into anger, then utter rage—and the Japanese skater just looked up at Victor sparkling eyes and a lopsided grin.

"Victor Nikiforov," said Katsuki, like it was a prayer.

Victor had a lot of fans. He'd been propositioned and stalked and admired and praised and adored by all sorts of people from all sorts of walks of life, and he'd never really paid much attention to any one in particular. A mere utterance of his name should have been nothing. _Should have been_. Victor found himself at a loss for words.

"Oh no you _don't_ ," said Yuri. "You're making a fool of yourself, and you decide now's a good time to try to get into the good graces the _gold medalist_? What the hell's wrong with you?!"

"I didn't say anything," Katsuki replied, miffed.

"You're drunk off your _ass_ ," hissed Yuri. "Go back to your room."

"You don't tell me what to do," snapped Katsuki. "Dance-off, Plisetsky!"

"What sort of music?" interjected Chris, who had mysteriously materialized next to Victor. His eyes were sparkling with mirth. When his eyes met Victor's, the grin that crossed their faces was simultaneous.

Not just Victor, then.

"Anything," said Katsuki.

Yuri named a song by a Swedish metal band. Victor's eyebrows rose. Yuri was taking this _seriously_. Yuri, who was never motivated to practice, who took any competition seriously. Not even the angry kitten was immune to the charms of Katsuki, apparently.

Chris started the music on his phone.

"I don't know this music," said Katsuki.

"Do you concede, then?" demanded Yuri with narrowed eyes.

"I can find something else," said Chris, already scrolling through his playlist.

"No," said Kastuki, eyes narrowed at Yuri. "I can beat you anyway."

And the two Yuris began to dance.

Victor knew in the first ten seconds that Yuri never stood a chance. Katsuki danced with the music infusing his every limb—like he could do anything. It was clear to Victor that he couldn't anticipate the tone of the music, but to the untrained eye, it might have been unnoticeable. He took the music, note by note, and moved with it like they were one, growing more confident as the song went on and he grew more confident in his grasp of the piece. Yuri was following, managing to keep up but only just.

At the 2-minute mark, Katsuki started full-on break dancing, moving gracefully in and out of difficult poses that highlighted his strength and left Yuri practically foaming at the mouth.

Chris and Victor weren't the only ones laughing and cheering the dancers on anymore. The entire banquet hall was watching.

Katsuki's shirt kept slipping up his torso to reveal his beautifully defined abs, and his face was relaxed in a profound sort of peace. It did something to Victor, seeing a beautiful man in a difficult pose, muscles exposed, face lax in bliss.

Victor couldn't refrain from going right up to him to get the best photos possible.

"How are we judging who won?" asked Victor as the music was coming to an end.

Chris raised his eyebrows. "Obviously it's the Japanese kid."

"Well, yes, but-"

"Why don't we just ask the room?"

The song ended and the banquet hall broke into applause.

"Now," announced Chris loudly, "we're asking everyone to help us judge the winner of that dance-off. If you think Yuri Plisetsky was the winner, give a cheer!"

There were a few cheers from around the hall, and a loud round of applause.

"If you think Yuuri Katsuki was the winner, give a-"

A deafening cheer went up in the room, with deafening applause.

Victor snuck a glance at Yuri. The boy was scarlet and shaking. Victor hid a smile. Yuri had never been challenged like this before. He wondered if the effects of this dance-off would change Yuri's attitude on the ice. Perhaps not. Perhaps that was too optimistic. After all, it was just one night. Just one dance.

"That was hardly fair," said Chris, his eyes glinting with something fierce. "Your opponent was a junior skater. I'll take you on. But let's up the stakes."

And so there was a ten-minute hiatus while Chris commandeered the bewildered servers into helping him set up a pole in the middle of the banquet hall. Victor didn't think to ask where in the world the pole had come from, because he soon found himself faced with a fidgeting Yuuri Katsuki.

"I won, Victor," said the skater, almost shyly.

"You did," smiled Victor.

"You believed in me."

"I did."

"They said I won," he repeated.

"Yes, they did," Victor said gently, a trickle of worry coming back.

"But what did you think?"

"Me?" Victor blinked.

"Did you..." Katsuki looked down at his feet like a shy schoolgirl. It shouldn't have looked as adorable as it did. "Did you like my dancing?"

"I loved your dancing," said Victor, and it was nothing but the honest truth. But the way that Katsuki looked up, his face all alight, made Victor want to say more. He opened his mouth to do so.

"Yuuri!" called Chris, and for a moment Victor was confused, forgetting that Katsuki was a Yuuri, too. "Time to strip down a bit, if you want to "Are you ready for this?"

"More than ready," said Katsuki, turning away from Victor and beginning to strip. A thought flickered through Victor's mind: would it be inappropriate if he helped?

Chris started out this time, and certainly put on a good show, complete with a full champagne bottle. He should have _trounced_ Katsuki. After all, Chris had been pole dancing for some 10 years.

But maybe Katsuki had trained in it too, because he was no less entrancing to watch. Chris was graceful. Katsuki _was_ the music. They tangled together in a display that was starting to make some people leave the banquet hall. But Victor couldn't take his eyes off of Katsuki.

The pole dance ended with the intervention of a few members from some of the organizers, who had apparently been notified by concerned servers about the "lewd display." Victor almost sighed in disappointment when the conclusion was reached: the dance-off was acceptable, but clothing needed to remain on.

Katsuki grabbed his shirt and tie, and managed to pull on his shirt. His tie ended up tied to the top of his head.

And then he latched onto Victor, plastering their fronts together without a millimeter to spare. Victor stared. There was no music now, but Katsuki hadn't stopped dancing—his torso was stationary, but his hips rolled against Victor's.

"You'll dance with me next, won't you?" asked Katsuki in a tone that sent Victor's blood rushing downwards. Or maybe that was the grinding. Was this a lapdance? Was it possible to give a lapdance standing up?

"Are you challenging me to another dance off?" asked Victor to distract himself, because the prospect of dancing with this man set his heart racing in the best way.

"Victooooor," Katsuki almost whined, and continued to speak in English more heavily accented than usual—Victor only caught something about if Katsuki won the dance-off, and that his family ran a hot spring hotel. Or maybe it wasn't the accent, but the fact that Victor was more preoccupied with the sparkle of Katsuki's (lovely, lovely) eyes, and the way his hips were still grinding against Victor's thigh.

But the last part landed with devastating clarity as Katsuki threw his arms around Victor's neck and buried his face in his shoulder.

"Be my coach, Victor!"

Victor felt the shift of his world shattering and realigning with Yuuri Katsuki at its center.

And he realized that he was actually _considering_ this proposition, made by a man he'd never even really noticed before today.

"You want me to come to Japan?" asked Victor softly. "To be your coach?"

"I _do_ ," groaned Yuuri into his shoulder. "I _love_ you, your skating, you have no idea." And Victor thought his heart might burst.

Victor grinned. He hadn't been this eager to perform this entire season—or maybe even since two seasons ago. Or maybe ever. He turned to Chris to give him a piece to put on. Chris was standing just next to Victor, still in his underwear and smirking at Victor.

"Put your clothes on," said Victor calmly.

"But Yuuri doesn't have to wear pants?"

Sure enough, Yuuri was still in his underwear. Victor saw his pants lying on the floor near the pole, so he went. Yuuri didn't let go. In fact, part way there he jumped up and wrapped his legs around Victor's waist, and Victor just carried him the rest of the way over to his pants.

He thought he'd have to cajole Yuuri off of him once they got there, but he didn't. Yuuri jumped down of his own volition and pulled on his own pants quickly enough. As he finished tucking his shirt back into his pants, Victor pulled the tie from his forehead to fasten it around his neck. Yuuri seemed to melt under his touch.

In other circumstances, Victor might have made a show of it for their audience. But he didn't have it in him. Right here, right now, he let himself be in this small world that was just his and Yuuri's, just for a few moments.

When Yuuri was dressed, Victor grinned, turned to Chris and named his song. Chris, now at least wearing pants, obliged.

They danced like it was what they'd been born to do. Yuuri started off, and Victor followed, but countered with his own additions to Yuuri's moves. Yuuri followed, and made his own modifications again.

Before long, it wasn't even much of a dance-off anymore—they were just dancing together, meeting each other move-for-move. There was no set roles of lead and follow. Yuuri led more often than not, leading Victor through spins and contortions that he followed effortlessly. But when Victor took the lead, he effortlessly followed until he took the lead back.

It was all effortless. Victor and Yuuri smiled and laughed together as they danced, and nothing was more divine than the feeling of Yuuri's hand trailing along Victor's thigh in a hold—or better yet, along Victor's cheek in a warming gesture of affection.

They ended the dance with Victor in a low dip beneath Yuuri, and they stood in place for several moments longer than necessary as applause rang out around them. Victor didn't want to stop touching, and he was sure that Yuuri felt the same.

It was the last dance of the night. Yuuri's coach showed up—where had he gone, anyway?—to drag him to bed. Victor felt something profoundly prophetic in getting to be Yuuri's last dance of the night.

Before Victor went to bed, he googled Yuuri's skating program.

Of course, the videos were a delight to watch. Yuuri's movements were beautiful. He made a lot of mistakes, but at points like the step sequence when he was in his stride, his body seemed to _make_ the music. Sure, he was perhaps more restrained and innocent in his movements than he had been that night, but it didn't matter—he could bring the music to life with sheer magnificence of movement.

Watching the videos of Yuuri's skating, Victor knew that it hadn't been a fluke: Yuuri made Victor's heart beat for skating again as it hadn't in _years_. His programs weren't always that great—his base score never tended to be very high, his choreography was often predictable, and he was just generally prone to falling at some point during his routines. But Victor was also hyper-aware that this might not be Yuuri himself, but rather the people who instructed him and helped him create his programs. After all, most skaters didn't make their own programs the way Victor did. If Victor were to create Yuuri's programs, he could help him overcome all these. He could help Yuuri be the music on the ice, the way he was meant to be.

Coaching him next season—now, there was a thought. The crowdsourced consensus had been a tie on the dance-offs with Chris and Victor, but they didn't know what they were talking about. Victor knew that Yuuri had won every single dance-off that night, hands down. Victor smiled softly.

* * *

The next day, as they were checking out of the hotel, Victor and Yuri crossed paths with Yuuri. It took a moment for Victor to notice, but when he did, Yuuri was unabashedly staring straight at him.

Victor grinned as his heart skipped a beat.

"Want a commemorative photo?" he called. "No problem."

Yuuri didn't even respond. He turned and walked away.

Victor stared after him, and all the wishful imaginings of the previous night popped like the fragile bubble they were.

Of course his life wasn't going to change because of one night and some things said while drunk.

 _We both got a bit carried away,_ said Yuuri's dismissal. _It didn't mean anything_.

Victor stared after Yuuri's retreating back and wondered how he could have so thoroughly misunderstood. Victor smiled ruefully. Oh well—there was still the entire rest of the season to worry about.


	2. Chapter 2

The skating season went on in the usual fashion. Victor skated, and the crowds went wild. He didn't see Yuuri again.

Something had changed, though.

Since the night of the banquet, Victor hadn't been able to shake Yuuri's proposal from his mind.

Victor had never really considered coaching. Sure, he offered younger skaters advice from time to time, but that wasn't remotely the same thing.

He followed the news about Yuuri as the Japanese skater blew the Japanese Championships just as he had the Grand Prix finals. The news articles lamented his anxiety, which they blamed for the poor performances.

Victor watched videos of Yuuri skate. The potential was there, but he wasn't always able to bring it out in his routines as much as he should have.

The question was: could Victor be the one to help him do that?

No, screw that. Of course he could.

The _real_ question was: had Yuuri meant it when he asked Victor to coach him?

All Victor knew was that Yuuri was back in Japan, where his family ran a hot spring, to which Yuuri had invited Victor one time. He had no other means of contacting Yuuri: no phone number or email address, and Yuuri didn't seem to use any social media.

What baffled Victor about Yuuri, really and truly, was the utter lack of sensuality in any of his skating routines, ever. He'd been the embodiment of sensuality at the dance-off, so why wasn't that side of Yuuri ever on the ice?

A month after the Grand Prix finals, Victor still didn't have an answer. Not to the enigma that was Yuuri, nor to the question of what Victor should do. He had started choreographing routines right after the Grand Prix—2 short routines. They were both about Yuuri. Of course they were, how couldn't they be? He choreographed one to reflect the utter innocence of Yuuri as he usually skated; and the other to reflect the sensuality that had infused Yuuri's dance at the banquet.

What was he going to do with 2 short programs? Victor had no idea.

He had hopes—hopes that Yuuri would skate one of them, perhaps, or that next season he'd see Victor skating Eros and recognize it for what it was: the story how how Yuuri had utterly seduced Victor, and then left.

But would that be enough for Victor? Yuuri wouldn't necessarily see the meaning of the routine, and was there any other point to it? It certainly wouldn't surprise audiences. Could Victor be content to skate next season with nothing but a call to a man who might not notice?

Sometimes, he was angry. What was _with_ that man? If he wanted Victor to be his coach, surely he could at least follow up on that? Or give Victor his contact information? What had that last day been about, when Yuuri had just turned away from Victor without even responding? What was he playing at?

 _Maybe it hadn't been anything special,_ Victor's mind whispered to him on the darkest nights. _Maybe that's just what Yuuri is like._

He imagined being no more than one in a string of people Yuuri seduced and left, and Victor's heart broke a little. _It wasn't even a proper seduction,_ he complained to Chris in a text. _It was only a dance._

 _You were pretty thoroughly seduced by that dance,_ Chris responded, and Victor had to concede the point.

 _Or maybe_ , Victor thought some days as he read about Yuuri's anxiety problems in the newspapers, _it all came back to the anxiety._

Yuuri had had a lot of alcohol in his system at the banquet, after all. Maybe he was just usually reserved with his confident, seductive side only coming out in certain circumstances.

The end of the season was closing in.

As the months went by, Victor grew certain, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he could not go on this way for another season. He wouldn't be able to surprise the audience as much as he wanted to. He wouldn't be content with his own skating, whatever he did.

Increasingly, he thought of Yuuri skating Agape or Eros. Oh, how he wanted to see that.

Clearly, Victor's own mind was made up. He'd never been one to doubt his own instincts, though Yuuri's mixed signals had been throwing him for a loop these past few months.

He looked up Yuuri's hometown. It was a small town, and Victor found the hot spring run by the Katsuki family easily enough. He bought himself a plane ticket for early April, after the season was over. He emailed his landlord to give notice that he'd be moving out after April. He arranged for movers, too. He applied for a visa and notified the Japanese authorities that he would be bringing a dog.

There was still a nagging doubt at the back of his mind, that Yuuri hadn't really meant it.

But Yuuri—brilliant, perfect Yuuri—gave him the answer he needed.

On the day after Victor took the gold at the World Championships, he had his phone turned off for most of the day as he flew home to St. Petersburg and Makkachin. He was at home, happily curled up with Makkachin on the sofa, when he turned his phone back on.

It wasn't unusual for his phone to be blowing up with social media notifications the day after a competition, so he paid no attention to those. What caught his attention were the texts from Chris.

 _Did you see the YouTube video?_

 _Oh, you must still be traveling._

 _Whenever you get this, ANSWER ME: did you see the YouTube video?_

Victor stared.

 _What YouTube video_? he responded.

He waited a moment, but Chris didn't respond immediately, so Victor started going through his social media notifications.

There was a link to a YouTube video of Victor's own program at the World Championships, but that was nothing special.

He scrolled past it. Then he paused. Wait—had that post said…?

He scrolled back up.

 _Victor Nikiforov's free skate routine performed by Japanese skater,_ the title proclaimed. Victor clicked.

It was Yuuri. He was performing " _Stay Close to Me,_ " Victor's free skate routine for most of the season. It wasn't perfect, of course, but that didn't matter. Victor could feel the love in his movements. He could feel Yuuri calling out to him, assuring him of the very thing that had been hanging over Victor since December: _I meant it. Please come to me_.

Victor called up the airline and the moving company and asked if they could move up the schedule—another week was too long. He wanted to go tomorrow.

Unfortunately, an exasperated employee at the moving company and a disgruntled agent of the airline informed him that this would cost him far more than he could afford, and Victor resigned himself to waiting another week.

It turned out not to be as bad as that. It took Victor most of the week to get things ready. There was packing, of course—he wasn't going to be renting any storage units, so anything he wanted to keep would have to come to Japan with him—but there was also a surprising amount of paperwork he needed to get from the vet for Makkachin.

In all the frenzy, Victor didn't realize he hadn't actually _told_ anyone he was leaving until the day before his flight.

The movers came and went with the boxes that contained everything that mattered to Victor.

Victor went to the skating rink.

"Want to go to dinner? My treat," he asked Yakov without preamble.

Yakov stared at him. "What? Vitya, if you want to talk about next season, we can do it in my office."

And that was when Victor realized—oops.

"Um, yeah," he said, scratching his cheek awkwardly, "About that. I'm not skating next season."

Yakov snorted. "Don't be ridiculous. Yes, you're on the old side for a competitor, but you swept through this season and took all the golds. You're still at your peak, Vitya."

"I'm coaching another skater."

Yakov gaped.

"What do you mean, you're coaching another skater?"

"I mean I'm coaching him. He asked me to."

"And what, you just do whatever people ask of you, now?" Yakov's voice was rising, veins popping in his forehead, and he looked like he might have an aneurism. Victor was suddenly having intense regrets about telling him. (Not about his decision, though. He'd never been more sure of anything.)

"Breathe, Yakov," Victor reminded him in genuine concern. Yakov didn't take it well.

"Don't you tell me to breathe, brat! What do _you_ know about coaching? You're not throwing your life away on an impulse. Listen, here's what we'll do: come to practice tomorrow morning, and show me those new routines you've been working on. After a session, we can talk about this like normal, sane people."

Victor just smiled, not having the heart to tell him that he'd be gone in the morning, or that his decision was final.

Some things were better without direct confrontation, he assured himself as he headed to the airport the next day.

"Are you Victor Nikiforov?" someone asked Victor just before he could get in line for security.

Victor put a professional smile on his face.

"Yes. Would you like a photo?"

"Yes, please!" said the man, but he snapped a photo of Victor, rather than the selfie of the two of them that Victor had been expecting. "Where are you off to? You're not in any more competitions this season, are you?"

"I'm not. I'm going to Japan."

"What for?"

Victor couldn't help the grin that spread across his face. "To coach Yuuri Katsuki, of course!"

The man looked dumbfounded, and Victor took advantage of his shock to get in line.

"But why him? Why not one of our own skaters here?" the man called to him. He didn't try to get into the security line—not a traveler, then.

"You'll see," Victor called back confidently.

He had no doubt about it. They would all see that Yuuri Katsuki was a force to be reckoned with.

And Victor—Victor would get to help Yuuri bring out his best advantages.

He'd never felt so alive.


	3. Chapter 3

Getting into Japan took a lot longer than it should have, and Victor could only blame himself for that. But in his defense, he wasn't used to having to be coy at immigration. All his life, immigration had been simple:

"Why are you here?"

"For the ice skating camp/competition/event!"

"Oh, are you an ice skater?"

"I am."

"Have you won any metals?"

"A few."

"Anything I might have heard of?"

And so on. Generally speaking, immigration officers who knew who Victor was were the exception, not the rule. Still, Victor had never realized how much simpler it made it to always have that competition behind him.

This time, at Fukuoka Airport, when an immigration officer asked, "Why are you here?" Victor's honest answer was met with incredulity.

"I'm here to coach a skater."

The officer stared at Victor.

"This is a tourist visa."

"Yes. You see, he didn't give me his contact information, so I didn't know how to get in touch with him for the visa sponsorship. I talked to the embassy, and they recommended I go in on a temporary visitor visa. Then, when I find him and start coaching him, we'll apply for a visa extension and change it over to a working visa."

The officer's eye was twitching. There was a long moment of silence. Victor smiled at the officer, but it didn't seem to help.

"I'll make Yuuri Katsuki the world champion," he ventured.

"Katsuki—that skater who just blew the Japanese Championships?" said the immigration officer incredulously.

Victor's eyes lit up: this man knew skating! "Yes! He has enormous potential. He could be the most amazing skater if he could just trust himself and skate."

"So…is this about that YouTube video?" the officer ventured.

"YouTube video?"

"The one where Katsuki was skating your routine."

"You know who I am?" Victor smiled. The officer glared, so he immediately addressed the question. "Not exactly. Well, yes. But Yuuri asked me to coach him."

"Katsuki Yuuri. Asked you. The most decorated skater in history. To coach him."

"He did," Victor beamed. "Aren't I lucky?"

"I'm not sure that's the word I'd use."

"You sound faint," Victor observed, not one to beat around the bush. "Are you all right?"

"Look," said the officer, rubbing a hand over his face. "I know who you are."

"Of course you do," said Victor. "You know figure skating."

"Yes, but I mean…" He sighed. "So, let me get this straight. You're here to be Katsuki's coach."

"Yes."

"Which Katsuki asked for."

"Yes."

"But when you applied for a visa, you didn't have his contact information."

"Yes."

"So where are you going now?"

"He told me to come to the onsen his family runs."

"You're telling me that in this day and age, you couldn't just get his number or email off of some skater registry?"

"Of course not. They take privacy issues very seriously. Most skaters communicate through social media, but well, Yuuri doesn't use them."

"So you're going to Katsuki's family home, just because he asked you to coach him once, without giving you any means to follow up on that."

"Not _just_ because of that. He also skated my routine, you saw." Victor beamed at the officer.

"Look," said the officer again, "You're a tourist."

"What?"

"You're here with a temporary visitor visa. That means you're a tourist. You can't take any money or any job while you're on this visa. You can't come into Japan with a tourist visa and announce that you plan to work."

"Ok, then I won't take any money."

"You won't…!" the officer looked like he was about to have some sort of fit. "That's- even if I could believe you-"

"I wouldn't coach anyone for the _money_ ," said Victor emphatically. "Yuuri has amazing potential. Yuuri could be amazing, but he hasn't been able to reach that because he's caught up in his own head. I want to help him be what he could be."

"I…see." There was a pause. "The fact remains that you _can't_ come into Japan on a tourist visa and announce that you plan to work."

Victor stared.

"Look," sighed the officer. "You're basically here to find Katsuki, right?"

Victor nodded.

"Right. So, you tell me you're a tourist. You're going to find Katsuki, work things out, and then immediately apply for a work visa with him as your reference."

"Okay?" said Victor. There was a beat.

"You have to tell me," prompted the officer.

"Oh! Right, I'm a tourist."

"Okay," said the officer, sounding more tired than he had any right to, considering that he was the one who had made this so complicated. "Put your index fingers on the tabs so I can fingerprint you."

* * *

After immigration was the issue of Makkachin's 12-hour quarantine, but Victor had known about this in advance. He'd booked a night at a hotel near the airport. He'd thought he might explore a little, but was far too tired and ended up simply checking in and collapsing onto the bed.

It wasn't the physical toll—Victor was no stranger to traveling—but the emotional one that was unexpected.

It was the anticipation of seeing Yuuri again. It was the uncertainty that came with that. It was even, to some small degree, the incredulity in the reactions of people like the immigration officer, who reacted like Victor was out of his mind when he explained himself.

Victor pulled out his phone, connected to the hotel wifi, and pulled up the video of Yuuri skating. It was reassurance like no other.

 _Come to me_ , Yuuri's skating said. _I'm waiting for you._

 _Yes_ , thought Victor, and started it over from the beginning again, just because he could. He fell asleep before it finished.

When Victor woke up, it was 4am and he'd been sleeping for a solid 10 hours. He got up and left the room to check out and pick up Makkachin. Their requisite reunion took some time, as Victor let Makkachin out of his kennel and walked him around the curb outside the airport a little. During their wandering, Victor found a little corner of the airport with pamphlets about "Japanese etiquette for the foreigner." One of them was about hot springs, so he grabbed that one. Then he took one of each of the others, just in case.

It had snowed a little in the night, contrary to all the weather reports and norms of the region that Victor had looked up before arriving. But he didn't seem to be the only one caught off-guard by the snow. Apparently, all the trains had ground to a halt.

Victor tried to hide his grin as he realized that of course—this was southern Japan, so they must not be used to snow at all, much less in April. What was "a little snow" to Victor was a world-stopping weather event to the local population, apparently.

But he was so close—too close to stop now, when Yuuri was less than 50km away.

He took a cab. It would come out a tad pricey, sure, but it was better than waiting another day while the snow-stopped locals figured things out. The cab driver didn't speak any English, but Victor pulled up the name of the hot springs and he seemed to understand.

"Far," said the cab driver, making a gesture that Victor assumed was meant to mean that it would either take a long time, or cost a lot of money.

"It's okay," said Victor with a reassuring smile.

Makkachin wasn't thrilled to have to return to his kennel for the cab ride, but Victor cooed reassurances that he would soon be free to stay out. He read the hot spring etiquette pamphlet on the way, but mostly looked out the window. They were driving on a road along the sea, and the view was beautiful.

It was still just after 8 when he arrived at the hot spring in Hasetsu. Victor thanked the cab driver and tried to give him a big tip, but the cab driver didn't seem to understand. After 2 confused exchanges of the change back and forth, Victor realized that perhaps tipping wasn't the custom here and took his change back. The cab driver smiled and bowed and left.

Victor looked up at the building, swallowed, and pulled open the door—or tried to for a brief moment before he realized that it was a sliding door. How interesting. It didn't seem very secure, but then maybe it was the low crime rate? Or maybe it was just that a hot spring didn't really have any reason to be secure.

Victor swallowed thickly again and slid open the door.

A man's voice and a woman's voice yelled something at him, and Victor blinked. Neither of them was Yuuri.

"Welcome," said the man in English after a moment, still smiling. "You here for hot spring?"

"Yes!" smiled Victor. He hadn't bathed or changed since Russia, and he was starting to feel it. He could find Yuuri afterwards, when he was cleaner and warmer. "But my dog…?"

The couple beamed at him, and Victor was relieved to see that they wouldn't have a problem with Makkachin.

"You want him inside or outside?" asked the man.

"Either…" Victor almost said, but then the woman leaned down to pet Makkachin, and Makkachin leapt at her with such force that he nearly knocked her over. Victor winced. "Outside, I think." Until Makkachin had worked off his pent up energy, at least.

The information from the pamphlet was immediately put to use. Victor stripped and put his things into one of the lockers. He went over to the showers and washed his body and his hair thoroughly, and then looked around at the baths. There were a few inside—low, square baths along the walls—but that wasn't what Victor envisioned when he thought of Japanese hot springs. He'd always imagined—ah-ha!

He found the door that led outside. The air was perhaps a tad chilly on his heated skin, but he paid it no mind. He was Russian, and a figure skater to boot. He stepped into the rock-lined hot spring and sank down. It was as glorious as he had imagined.

But not nearly as glorious as a few minutes later, when a fully-clothed Yuuri came charging out to stare at him.

"V- Victor," gasped the voice he'd been waiting months to hear again, sounding beyond breathless, almost like he might faint. Victor looked up, and once again, felt his world _click_. All doubts melted away. "What are you doing here?"

Victor smiled to himself. Well, he wasn't going to let Yuuri barrel him over this time. Victor would give as good as he got.

"Yuuri!" he greeted, standing to face him. "I'll be your coach from today. And I'll make you win the Grand Prix Final."

Victor added a wink for good measure.

Yuuri let out a loud exclamation of utter, total shock.

Victor smiled to himself.

 _One for one_ , he tallied.


	4. Chapter 4

After he got out of the bath, Victor ate and drank and curled up for a nap, cuddled up with Makkachin. He dreamed of Yakov begging him not to go on the bridge by the ice rink in St. Petersburg. A ridiculous notion—Yakov was never one to beg. He was one to shout, and demand. Yakov would know he was gone by now, and was probably shouting up a storm back in Russia.

Victor had always slept a lot, but it did occur to him that it was perhaps a little odd to chase the man of your dreams across the globe, and then take a nap when you'd found him. But then again, nothing was quite turning out how he'd imagined.

He didn't even know what he'd been imagining. That Yuuri would pull Victor into his arms like he had when they'd danced, maybe.

But it only took seconds for Victor to realize that he was meeting a Yuuri very different from the one at the banquet. This Yuuri was awkward and clumsy, and disturbingly flabby around the midriff for an athlete. He'd noticed the weight gain in the YouTube video, but assumed it was something the man was working off. A glimpse at him in his coat proved that no—if anything, he'd gained more in the week since that video went up on the internet.

But no—the weight wasn't the problem.

Or maybe it was. Victor was supposed to be his coach, after all. The weight gain was a problem any coach would have to take up with his skater.

And yet—

What sank like a knife into Victor's soul was the way Yuuri looked at him. There was awe, and admiration, and wonder. It was awful. He might as well be looking at someone on stage, on a pedestal. Like Victor was an idol, not quite real. It was worlds away from the adoration and affection he'd shown Victor at the banquet, like Victor was someone to be wooed and loved and _touched_.

He swallowed down the rising bitterness. He supposed it was the awkwardness, or the shock. After all, Yuuri hadn't known that Victor was coming. Maybe he'd waited for a call from Victor just like Victor had waited for a call from Yuuri. Maybe he'd assumed that Victor wouldn't be interested anymore, after the way he'd bombed the rest of the season.

When he couldn't quite shrug off the doubt through a meal—if anything, Yuuri's wide, star-struck eyes made his stomach turn and twist more every minute—Victor took to the floor with Makkachin for a nap.

Victor fluttered in and out of sleep on the straw mat floor. At one point, hovering between waking and sleeping, he had a brief but strong pang of self-doubt. It twisted in his chest, so cold and unfamiliar that he woke up.

He was probably just hungry again. He pushed down the feeling, pulled away from Makkachin and sat up.

"I'm hungry," he muttered, and opened his eyes to see Yuuri beside him, watching him with wide eyes.

Once again with the awe. Once again, with Victor on the pedestal. The bitterness tasted just as fresh as it had before his nap. He preferred the improbable dream, with Yakov on a bridge calling him back.

"What would you like to eat?" Yuuri was asking him over the Japanese mumbles of an attractive woman who'd appeared beside him while Victor was sleeping.

 _See?_ Victor said to himself, swallowing the way the bitterness intensified at the woman's apparent familiarity with Yuuri. _Overreacting. He's offering food. Remember—you're here as his coach first and foremost._

So he focused on that approach.

"As your coach, I'd like to know what you like to eat," he said with a perfectly even smile.

Which was how he was introduced to the _katsudon_ : a deep-fried pork cutlet in half-cooked egg on rice, with a smattering of green peas in the egg.

It looked amazing and smelled even better, and somehow tasted better than the sight and the smell combined. For a few blissful moments, Victor forgot his bitterness in his delight, and his world narrowed down to the flavors.

"This is _so good_ ," he gushed, and when he looked up again, everything was a little more normal. Yuuri was smiling comfortably, his mother skipping out of the room in delight at the compliment to her cooking.

"Yuuri gains weight easily, so he was only allowed this dish when he'd won a competition," said the woman toward Yuuri, but in English for Victor's benefit.

So definitely someone close to Yuuri, then.

For the first time, it occurred to Victor that he had no idea whether Yuuri was even single. Since Yuuri wasn't on social media, any and all information about his personal life was few and far between. For all he knew, this was Yuuri's girlfriend, and the awkwardness around the man was because he was ashamed of the way he'd all but cheated on her with Victor that night.

The thought came fully formed in an instant. Victor brushed it away.

"And have you eaten this recently?" he asked Yuuri.

"Yes, yes," said Yuuri, honest to a fault. "I eat it often."

The honesty soothed Victor in all the wrong ways. _If you can be so honest about something so damning, then what the hell is wrong with you_? demanded some frustrated corner of his mind.

What idiot admits to their new coach that they've been regularly eating something that was mostly carbs and fats? But admit it he did, so Victor responded in kind.

"Why? You haven't won anything."

Yuuri froze, like these words came as a shock to him. Something about that stoked the flames of frustration—of bitterness—and Victor went on unrepentantly.

"With that pig's body of yours, there's no point in teaching you anything. If you can't get your weight back to where it was at last year's Grand Prix Finals, at least, I don't wanna coach you."

Yuuri stared at Victor, jaw dropped. Good—let the pedestal break. Let him see that Victor was taking this deadly seriously.

"So no pork cutlet bowls, okay, little piggy?" Victor concluded, unable to resist that one last little jibe.

Yuuri was still staggering under the weight of Victor's words. That was okay.

"Can you move your stuff?" said another, plainer young woman grumpily. "It's in the way."

"Can you move it to the room where I'll be staying?" asked Victor lightly.

Yuuri and the pretty woman seemed shocked at that. Victor pretended not to notice.

The pretty woman seemed to suddenly need to be somewhere else, and Yuuri had a discussion with the plain woman in Japanese that escalated into a loud argument. Yuuri's father stepped in to say something, and the matter seemed resolved.

Yuuri picked up one of the boxes and turned to Victor with an, "I'll show you to your room."

Victor wasn't feeling _quite_ heartless, so he picked up one of the lighter boxes and followed.

The room he was offered seemed fairly small, though Yuuri assured him that it was an old banquet hall.

"I've never seen you raise your voice like that before," Victor remarked lightly.

"Oh," said Yuuri, his face reddening. "You know how it is with siblings."

Victor didn't know, as a matter of fact, but that didn't matter. He thought back on the woman—how could someone so plain and angry be Yuuri's sister?

Then again, maybe that was it. Maybe it was the environment that was making Yuuri like—not how he was at the banquet. Maybe that's all it was. Shyness, awkwardness, the person his family expects him to be. Or maybe it was just the gap between his drunk and sober personas.

Victor kept having to remind himself that he'd only ever know Yuuri when he was drunk—and only for a night, at that. He had no reason to expect anything from the man. Practical considerations go out the window for most people when drunk—clearly Yuuri had given no thought to where Victor might stay if he took him up on that request to coach him.

The thought was staggering, and Victor sat down to consider that. Of course Yuuri was nervous. There were things like coaching fees, and Yuuri had an already partially-grumpy family to deal with, in an inn that seemed surprisingly empty. Maybe it was the financial considerations—Victor was no stranger to the stress of finances in the life of a skater. Of course, those days were long gone for Victor, but he'd been there too, once upon a time.

Apparently, no one else was helping carry boxes, so Victor let Yuuri do most of the carrying. It was a start, though Victor wouldn't start implementing any sort of training regime until tomorrow.

Yuuri only looked more and more glum as he carried the boxes. By the time he brought in the last one, he looked downright anxious.

So Victor pointed it out. "It's the coaching fees, isn't it? Don't worry, I'll wait for payment until you have winnings to show for it! I'll bill you then!"

"Th- thank you," said Yuuri, looking not the least bit reassured.

But they were in Victor's room. Alone. Victor's heart beat—now was the time to talk.

Victor knelt before Yuuri.

"Yuuri," he said, simply murmuring the man's name to him for the first time. It came out in the same soft tone as it had when he'd uttered it in bed at night with his eyes closed and a hand wrapped around himself time and time again for the past four months. The thought made him warm. "Tell me everything about you."

Yuuri's eyes were wide, and he didn't answer. Victor reached out and raised his chin, and Yuuri uttered a surprised gasp. And all the wonderings of the last four months came spilling out at once.

"What kind of rink do you skate at? What's there to do in this town? Is there a girl you like?" Victor caught himself at that—no, too close to jealousy. Don't scare him away. One hand still under Yuuri's chin, he slid the other hand down his arm and to his hand, clasping it in his own. "Before we start training, we should start building up a trusting relationship."

His heart was pounding in his ears. The ball was in Yuuri's court now—

Except it wasn't. Because Yuuri dove backwards, slamming into the wall on the far side of the hallway.

Victor stared.

"Why are you running away?"

"Uh," squeaked Yuuri. "No reason."

 _Liar._

Yuuri escaped down the hallway, and Victor could only let him go.

Maybe he'd been beating about the bush too much? Yuuri had been nothing but direct at the banquet—maybe he didn't know what to do with the getting-to-know-each-other variety of flirtation? Victor didn't let himself lose heart. They'd been alone in the room—Yuuri had every opportunity to tell Victor that he'd misunderstood, that their dance at the banquet had meant nothing. He hadn't said anything of the sort.

Victor took heart in that, and resolved to give Yuuri space for the rest of the evening.

Instead, he focused on unpacking. There wasn't a whole lot of space to put things, but Yuuri's sister—Mari, she introduced herself at last—poked her head in an hour into the process to offer him some old furniture if he needed it.

He accepted, and got through one more box before he looked at the clock and realized that it was past 10.

"Where's Yuuri's room?" he asked Mari, and she pointed down a hallway and told him it was the door at the end.

There was light leaking around the edges of the door at the end of the hallway, and Victor took heart.

"Yuuri," he knocked. "Let's sleep together! There's still so much I want to know about you, as your coach!"

"No!" Yuuri's voice said from beyond the door.

Victor kept trying for a few minutes—maybe he was playing hard-to-get.

But the minutes passed and Yuuri's protestations went silent and the door didn't open.

At last, the optimism ran out. The bitterness he'd been swallowing all day set in, and Victor felt his eyes fill.

He turned quickly and rushed back up the hallway to his own room, grateful when he made it without anyone seeing him.

The pain, the rejection and the bitterness took hold as soon as the door closed behind me.

"You still love me, though, right?" he said to Makkachin, kneeling in front of him.

Makkachin whined and licked the tears from Victor's cheek.

He went to bed, aware that he'd spent most of the day sleeping and unable to bring himself to care. It was easier to bear this strange reality in the land of sleep. Where he didn't have to think about how little he clearly meant to this man who'd made himself the center of Victor's world.


End file.
